


Here I Go Again (My, My, How Can I Resist You?)

by bookishandbossy



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Mamma Mia AU, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Romantic Comedy, Swearing, endgame Tripskye, possibly crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookishandbossy/pseuds/bookishandbossy
Summary: This weekend, Skye Johnson's daughter Lee is getting married.  And everything is going to go perfectly.  Apart from the fact that three of her ex-boyfriends have shown up on the Greek island where she runs her hotel.  And one of them is Lee's father. She just doesn't know which one.
(A Mamma Mia AU.)





	1. Honey, Honey (how you thrill me)

**Author's Note:**

> The title and chapter titles are all from ABBA songs.

It starts because Skye never thought to password protect her diary. Well, if you're being specific, it starts because her daughter is getting married. (At nineteen, which is insane. When Skye was nineteen, she was busy being a teen pop idol. Which admittedly is a different kind of insane.) And if you're being really really specific, it starts because one long hot summer, she gets involved with three different guys and ends up with a daughter.

 

“You sure you and Kurt don't want to elope?” Skye asks hopefully. She's been looking at flowers with Lee for the past three hours. Before that, they tried planning out the menu for the reception with the hotel's chef. Before that, they tried on dresses. And before that...Skye doesn't remember anything before that. She would kill for a cup of coffee right now. Or, even better, a drink. 

“Absolutely,” Lee says firmly. “Aunt Jemma would cry if she didn't get to see me in my wedding dress. And Aunt Bobbi would never take you along on any of her expensive alimony vacations again.”

Skye sighs, gives in, and presses a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. “Whatever you want, honey,” she says and tries to think calming thoughts that don't involve the hotel, or the million and one repairs that need to be done and that she definitely doesn't have the money for, or her bartender Lance's unfortunate tendency to tell the guests that they're ordering shitty beers. Or the fact that in one week, her daughter is getting married and leaving forever. She knows that technically, it's not forever but for as long as she can remember, it's been her and Lee, a perfect family of two. It feels like she was sending her off to school and writing angry notes to the teacher who said coding wasn't for girls only yesterday. And now Lee's trying on her wedding dress and talking about the around-the-world trip she and Kurt are planning to take and how they might move to be near his mother in England after they're done. (Kurt's mother is named Raven Darkholme and lives in a massive mansion and Skye is uncomfortably aware that her position as the cool mom is threatened every time that Kurt mentions Raven's blue hair or legendary solstice parties.)

“When are they getting here?” Lee asks.

“Tomorrow, I think. They're taking the ferry over from the mainland.” Assuming of course, that Bobbi's luggage actually fits on the ferry.

“Do you think Aunt Bobbi is going to bring her guitar with her? A one night only reunion of Daisy and the Chains, the world's first girl-power band, for her favorite niece...” Lee suggests, eyes sparkling.

“Jubilee Johnson, I am never getting into that costume ever again. Now let's go put the florist out of his misery.”

 

_“We should start a band,” Skye announces from her position on the floor. She, Jemma, and Bobbi are sprawled out on the shag carpet of Bobbi's apartment, a jug of red wine between them, her head propped on Bobbi's stomach and her legs slung over Jemma's lap. It's three in the morning, they're all full of greasy burgers and fries from the diner Jemma insists has at least two health violations but goes to anyway, and Skye is ridiculously, simply happy._

_“What kind of band?” Jemma asks,wrinkling her nose. “All I can play is a grand piano.”_

_“Grand piano, keyboard—same difference,” Skye says and waves one hand in the air to indicate the miniscule distance between the concert piano Jemma's parents made her practice on and the cheap keyboard they'll end up buying from a pawn shop. “Besides, Bobbi plays guitar. From her hippie phase.”_

_“It wasn't a hippie phase,” Bobbi corrects, over-pronouncing all of her words like she always does when she's drunk. “It was an infiltration. From that time I worked for the FBI. All part of the cover.”_

_“So who were you infiltrating during the punk rock phase? That guy with green hair or the girl with a safety pin through her nose?” Skye teases and feels Bobbi's stomach shake beneath her with laughter. “But anyway. We should start a band. We can have costumes.”_

_Maybe the costumes are what really sells it._

Skye doesn't care how old she is. She shrieks and rushes down towards the end of the pier when she sees Bobbi and Jemma get off the ferry, Bobbi with a truly impressive array of suitcases and Jemma with a massive backpack that's probably bulging with notes and field samples for her latest book. 

Bobbi envelops her in a hug so tight that Skye can feel her ribs cracking, especially when Jemma lets her backpack fall to the ground with a truly alarming thump and throws her arms around the two of them like she's just returned from an Arctic expedition. (Knowing Jemma, she very well might have.) Skye feels better just seeing them. Bobbi, her long blonde hair pulled back into a perfectly groomed ponytail, managing to wear a leather jacket in the heat of a Greek summer and navigating the pier perfectly in spiky heels as only she can. Jemma, smudges of ink along her fingers and notebook sticking out of the pockets of her cargo pants, already looking around for new things to write about.

“What can we do?” Jemma asks breathlessly as soon as they've untangled themselves and Skye's loading their luggage into her tiny car. “Write place cards? Arrange flowers? Yell at people for you?”

“Remind me, do we like Kurt?” Bobbi adds. “Or do we want to give him a stern talking-to about responsibility and not breaking our Lee's heart? Without or without CIA-approved interrogation tactics.”

“The wedding is handled, we like Kurt very much, and all you need to do is be here.” Skye tries to keep her tone light but Bobbi has been reading people for a living for almost fifteen years and she leans forward to squeeze Skye's shoulder. 

“Is everything okay?” Bobbi asks gently. From her spot in the passenger seat, Jemma twists to look at Skye too, eyes wide with concern.

“I just can't get used to the idea that Lee's really leaving,” Skye sighs. Jemma makes sympathetic noises from beside her and digs a packet of biscuits out of her backpack. (They're chocolate, because Jemma is a very smart woman and has the PhDs to prove it.) Skye shoves two into her mouth at once and talks around the crumbs. “She's so _young_ to be getting married—not that I know anything about getting married—and she doesn't even know what she wants to do yet and another part of the hotel fell down yesterday and I just—let's get a drink when we get back to the hotel. My bartender isn't bad, when he isn't swearing at the English football team on the bar television.”

“We'll get you a drink,” Bobbi says. “And a snack. And a good repairman. Maybe we'll get you laid too.”

“Bobbi!” Jemma scolds, already flushing bright pink. 

“Aren't you the one who went to that swingers resort in Mexico?” Skye points out. She's feeling better already.

“That was for one of my guidebooks.” Jemma tilts her chin high in the air and tries to look dignified. Skye and Bobbi tease her about it all the way back to the hotel.

“That book sold very well, you know,” Jemma tells them smugly when they're back at the hotel and ensconced around a table with tropical drinks sporting jaunty little paper umbrellas. (Bobbi's drink has two extra umbrellas and a cherry in it. Skye has a strange suspicion that this might be Hunter's way of flirting.)

“They've actually been selling quite well lately. I was asked to autograph someone's copy on the plane,” Jemma adds, flushing a little with pride. She writes a series of guidebooks called “The Adventurer's Guides” for people who want to jump off mountains and eat strange local delicacies instead of going to the beach and getting a massage at the hotel spa. Inside a certain circle of travelers, she's quite well known. Because she's Jemma, though, she won't rest until she's appearing on talk shows and penning articles for the New York Times. And because she's Jemma, she'll probably achieve all of it.

“That's amazing, Jem,” Skye says. “What's next, a line of travel pillows?”

“The people I write for don't need _travel pillows_ ,” Jemma scoffs. They all burst into laughter. Skye met Jemma and Bobbi in the first month of college, after they'd both been banished from their triple by their roommate Raina and the latest in her series of boyfriends. They'd knocked on her door, Jemma clutching a thick stack of books and a bag of organic pears and Bobbi brandishing a DVD of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and a box of microwave popcorn, and asked for asylum. The three of them had been best friends ever since.

“So who else is coming to the wedding?” Bobbi asks when they've finally got their laughter under control.

“Phil and Melinda, of course.” Skye's foster parents didn't bat an eye when they found out she was pregnant. Instead Phil started buying baby board books and onesies that declared the baby to be Steve Rogers' Number One Fan while Melinda helped Skye baby-proof every single inch of the house and spent endless early mornings walking with Lee in the first months after her birth. They still spoil Lee horribly, even if Melinda denies it. “Mack and Elena, Joey and his new boyfriend, Mike and his son Ace, Maria and Sam and Natasha and maybe Steve if he can get the time off, Fitz--”

“Wait,” Jemma interrupts. “Do you mean Professor Leopold Fitz? At Oxford?”

“That's the one. He's friends with Mack but I've known him for ages.” Almost eighteen years, in fact. Mack dragged Fitz along to the island on a vacation, which Fitz promptly spent sitting in the shade, grading a stack of massive papers, taking apart her oven and putting it back together again, building elaborate toys for Lee, and getting sunburned despite the massive quantities of sunblock he applied daily. 

“He's also the author of a fascinating paper on the clean energy potential of the Gobi Desert,” Jemma puts in. “Not to mention his groundbreaking work on drones.”

“Jem, do you have a thing for a guy you've never met?” Bobbi asks slowly. Jemma doesn't answer, just gulps down half her drink and stares intently at the table. “Because I bet Skye could introduce you. Then you could get to know him really, really well.”

“I'm only interested in talking to him for the purposes of science,” Jemma informs them haughtily, pink still staining her cheeks.

“Right.” Skye nods slowly. “You guys can talk all about chemistry.”

Jemma drops the dignified act and throws her paper cocktail umbrella at her. And for a little while, as they laugh and drink and swap stories and get copious amounts of the kitchen's truffle fries, Skye actually lets herself think that there's nothing to worry about. She is so, so wrong. 

Three hours later, Skye goes looking for the extra tea lights she normally keeps in the goat shed and opens the door to find three of her ex-boyfriends sitting around frowning at their suitcases.

None of them have spotted her yet. So she shuts the door as fast as she possibly can. It's a logical reaction.


	2. Our Last Summer (memories that remain)

Okay. She can do this. She just can't open the door again. But if she creeps around the back and climbs up to the roof to peer in through the trapdoor...that she can do. Skye props a ladder up against the wall and creeps up as quietly as she possibly can. In her paint-spattered jeans and plaid sheet, she's not exactly subtle but most of her staff have gotten used to her climbing around the hotel to do things like rewire the cable and unlock the door of the one room that locks automatically from the inside. Maybe she can do some repairs when she's up here, see if she can pirate HBO so the guests can watch the latest season of Game of Thrones. Oh god, this is it. She's going crazy. (Jemma could probably confirm it for her.)

Trip, Lincoln, and Robbie can't all be here, in the same room, the same weekend that her daughter is getting married. That's against some law of the universe. Skye eases the trapdoor open half an inch and spots Lincoln's distinctive hair and the silver flash of Robbie's leather jacket. Clearly the universe hates her. She lets the trapdoor slam shut and presses her back against the wall. 

They're all there. In the same room. The three men who might be Lee's father. Clearly the universe just doesn't hate her. It bears a longstanding fiery grudge against her.

She eases open the trapdoor and there they all are again. Lincoln, Robbie...and Trip. 

 

_She meets Trip first. She and Jemma and Bobbi are in a tiny smoky nightclub in Paris where one of their favorite bands was supposed to be playing. But it's been almost two hours, there's no sign of them, Jemma's had beer spilled on her twice, and Bobbi might murder the next Frenchman who looks at her the wrong way. So Skye heads over to the bar to settle their tab and runs into a guy with the best smile she's ever seen in her life. Literally runs into him. That kind of thing is only supposed to happen in the movies, but she and Antoine Triplett slam into each other in the chaos of the crowd and the final shot she bought herself as a consolation prize goes splashing out onto the floor._

_“Shit, I'm sorry,” he says. “I promise I'm a lot smoother than this usually.”_

_“Oh really?” Skye stops and quirks an eyebrow up at him._

_“Like right now, I could offer to buy you a drink to make up for the one I spilled. Start talking to you, maybe find out your name...”_

_“So why don't you?”_

_Two hours later, they're kissing on a bridge overlooking the Seine and he holds her steady when she stumbles on the cobblestones and the next morning he calls up her hotel and offers to buy her breakfast and Skye...Skye falls for him harder and faster than she's ever fallen for anyone. And when he breaks her heart, he breaks it harder than anyone ever has._

 

Unfortunately, while she was climbing up the side of her goat shed, Skye forgot a key part of its architecture. Namely, that its architecture is shit. So when the rope handle of the trap door gives way beneath her hand, she finds herself plunging down into the attic and promptly surrounded by the three men she's been spying on. She really thought that this day couldn't get worse but apparently it's rising to the challenge.

“What the hell are you all doing here?” she blurts out before any of them can speak and folds her arms across her chest, trying to look intimidating. The plaster in her hair and the paint on her overalls probably aren't helping.

“Vacation,” Robbie says and flashes her a grin. “I've got a boat now. She's called La Furiosa.” And knowing Robbie, the boat is probably painted black with flames along the sides. When he and Skye were dating, he had a sleek black car that he drove way too fast. She'd prop her feet up on the dashboard and throw one hand out the window to catch the sea breeze and he'd always glare at her and let her do it anyway. 

“Volunteering?” Lincoln offers weakly. “Lots of health care problems in the Greek islands. Very serious ones. Tourists with food poisoning and everything.”

“Business trip,” Trip adds.

“Well, you can't stay here. Who let you in here anyway?” Skye demands. No one answers that. She's beginning to get a sinking feeling in her stomach and this one isn't like the feeling she gets when she can't find her favorite screwdriver or even like the feeling she gets when a guest knocks on her door in the middle of the night to tell her that their ceiling is dripping. This is a thirty-five stories straight down kind of feeling. Because the only thing really happening on the island this weekend is Lee's wedding. “Did you—did you get invited to the wedding?”

“We, ah—we thought that you invited us. That's what she—that's what I assumed.” It's the first time she's ever seen Trip look flustered. Well, it might be the second. But she doesn't want to think about the first time.

“And why would I invite three of my ex-boyfriends to my daughter's wedding?” No one has an answer for that either. Skye heaves a huge sigh. They're here now and she can't exactly kick them off the island, if only because the ferry won't be back until next week. But she absolutely refuses to have them staying in her goat shed. The goats would probably eat Lee's wedding dress in revenge.

“Either way, you can't stay here,” she repeats and gestures roughly towards the door. “Out. Now. Go stay on Robbie's boat or something.”

They file out slowly, dragging their luggage behind them, and Skye suspects that they may actually be headed to Robbie's boat. Maybe they'll just sail away, never to be seen again, and—no. They all have invitations to the wedding and none of her ex-boyfriends have ever been the type to turn down a party. A new thought strikes her and Skye seriously considers beating her forehead against the wall. What if one of them does the math and figures it out? Even worse, what if they tell Lee? She slumps back against the door and tries very hard not to cry. 

After a few minutes, she decides that she can't cry in her goat shed. Crying in her bedroom is a much better idea.

 

“Skye?” Jemma calls through the door. “Skye, are you okay? Can Bobbi and I come in?”

“Everything's fine,” Skye mumbles into her pillow.

“Everything does not sound fine.” Bobbi says crisply. “Jem, want me to pick the lock?”

“We're not picking the lock! That would be an invasion of her privacy,” Jemma says, her voice carrying perfectly through the door. Jemma never really learned how to whisper properly. “We'll just wait outside until she lets us in and decides that she's ready to talk. I've got snacks in my bag.”

“What if she's injured herself horribly and can't open the door?” Bobbi's probably doing her best to keep a straight face right now.

“Skye, have you injured yourself horribly enough that you can't move from your bed?” Jemma shouts through the door. “Because I'm not that kind of doctor but Bobbi might be able to do some field work before we could airlift you off the isl--”

Skye gets up and opens the door. Jemma and Bobbi surround her almost instantly, asking her what's wrong and offering her hugs and food and the grisly murder of whoever's wronged her. (Surprisingly, it's Jemma who offers the murder.)

“Just tell us what's wrong,” Bobbi says firmly. “We'll fix it.”

“Three of my ex-boyfriends are here. On the island. Previously in the goat shed. And one--” Skye takes a deep breath. “One of them is Lee's father.”

“So which one is it?” Jemma asks.

“See, technically,” Skye admits and fights the urge to bury her face in the pillows again. “I may not know who Lee's father is. Technically.”

“That can be easily solved,” Jemma says eagerly. Too eagerly. “I mean, obviously Lee looks just like you, so we can't take any cues from physical appearances but I brought one of my mobile field kits along and if I made a few modifications and got samples from all three men and Lee—say swiped the glasses that they drank from—I could easily run a few paternity tests.”

“And tell Lee that we need to run a paternity test because oh, by the way, I'm not quite sure who her dad is? Not happening,” Skye snaps. She has her dignity, period spent as a teen idol aside, and while her daughter may roll her eyes at her occasionally, Lee still sees her mom as smart. Capable. The kind of woman who has her life together.

“It's not like you have absolutely no idea,” Bobbi points out. “There's three candidates, right?”

“Right.” Skye takes a deep breath and tells herself to think logically. The fact that the three men who may be her daughter's father are all currently lurking in her goat shed practically demands logical thinking. “So we have Robbie.”

“All right, that isn't too bad,” Jemma says brightly. “I mean, it's not like it's--”

“Trip.”

“Shit,” Bobbi says with a wince.

“And Lincoln.”

“Double shit,” Jemma and Bobbi say in unison. 

Skye flops back onto her bed and after a moment, reaches over the side and pulls out the bottle of wine she keeps stowed underneath it in case of emergency. Normally, an emergency would mean a natural disaster or a very irate guest with considerable sway on Trip Advisor. This trumps them all. 

“Good choice,” Bobbi says as she eyes the bottle and gestures for Skye to hand it over so she can open it. (Back in college, Bobbi had been famous for pulling wine corks out with her teeth.) “Come on, between the three of us, I bet we can keep all three of them busy. We'll each take one of them—I'll distract Robbie with my knowledge of high-speed cars, Jemma can talk to Lincoln about medical whatever, and you--”

“I will be avoiding Trip as much as humanly possible.”

_He's engaged. He's engaged and she's the biggest idiot to have ever walked the face of this earth._

_“Skye, just let me explain,” he pleads, racing along behind her as she crosses the bridge. They're in Venice and it's all sun-soaked buildings and light that seems to have been strained through honey and tiny cups of intensely rich gelato and the city has probably been ruined for her forever. It was supposed to be a romantic vacation. And it was, until a phone call from his fiancee came through to their hotel._

_“Look, I know I fucked up,” Trip says. “And I am so, so sorry for that. But Wanda and I—things are complicated. So we decided to spend some time apart and then I met you and Skye, I think I--”_

_She doesn't let him finish that sentence. She runs. And she ends up in Greece, with Bobbi and Jemma and a tiny hotel room filled with tissues and wine._

_“What you need is another guy,” Jemma tells her firmly from where she's curled on the end of the bed._

_“I don't think I should be taking romantic advice from you,” Skye grumbles. “Didn't you once spend six months exchanging letters with some guy who claimed he was an astronaut but actually--”_

_“You mean the one that we promised never to speak of again?” Bobbi interjects smoothly. “Anyway, I also think what you need is another guy and I have a great dating history. What about that blonde guy we saw at the bar?”_

_“I don't like blondes,” Skye informs her and pulls the covers over her head._

_She's wrong. As it turns out, she does like blondes, especially if they happen to have sparkling blue eyes and a smile that snaps through her like electricity. Especially if they kiss her in dark corners and go cliff jumping with her and take her to seaside restaurants where they serve the day's fresh catch. Especially when they're fun and uncomplicated and everything she needs after Trip._

_But not when they want to get more serious. Lincoln starts talking about things like the trip he's planning to Australia and his family back home in California and it's all too much too soon, the weight of his expectations sinking down on her. Because she doesn't want those things. Not yet. And even if she did, she has a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that Lincoln isn't quite the one she wants them with._

_So she breaks up with him ten minutes before she's supposed to get on a boat. It's not her best effort._

Jemma is currently occupied with trying to memorize all of Lincoln Campbell's significant medical achievements, educational history, and any relevant papers published. Of course, this would all be significantly easier with a better internet connection, which is exactly why she brought her own hotspot with her. 

“You're taking up the whole bar,” the bartender grumbles and looks at her suspiciously over the glasses he's half-heartedly polishing.

“Where else am I supposed to set up my research station?” It's a rhetorical question. Unfortunately, he doesn't take it that way. The bartender opens his mouth, presumably to list off all the places where she could set up her (quite compact, really) research station instead of his ridiculous tiki bar. Jemma cuts him off.

“Look...” she tilts her head towards him and waits for his name. 

“Hunter,” he supplies.

“Hunter. Let me explain how this could work. I happen to be friends with Bobbi. The blonde,” she adds when Hunter shoots her a confused look. “If you don't say anything else about my use of your bar for vital research, I will say nice things about you to her. If you let me use it for the whole weekend, I'll even tell you her favorite drink. Deal?”

“Deal,” Hunter says. “What kind of vital research are you doing anyway? Wedding shit?”

“You could say that.” Jemma Simmons isn't exactly good at making small talk, despite the years of practice she's had at publishing industry events. But where she excels is preparation. And she absolutely refuses to let the fact that Dr. Leopold Fitz (author of one of her all time favorite scientific papers) might be in this hotel faze her.

 

Fitz wonders what the probability of all his students being idiots really is. Their term papers are sitting in the corner of his hotel room. Lurking, really. Staring at him with ominous intent. It's honestly ridiculous that he had to bring them along to Lee's wedding. Except that the last time he didn't return students' papers for two months, he got called into the dean's office and given a very stern lecture. (And Dean Carter scares him.)

Right then. His goddaughter is getting married on a Greek island. He's not going to spend the whole time locked up in his room with a bunch of papers. He's going to do it at the bar, with one of the pineapple slushie drinks that Hunter makes. Maybe even some fries.

Only when he gets downstairs, the bar is occupied by an elaborate range of technology, an assortment of papers, and one very pretty brunette whose prettiness doesn't make up for the fact that she's blocking his access to the slushie machine. Not even a little bit.

“What happened to the bar?” he asks. Hunter just grimaces at him.

“I requisitioned it,” the brunette says. “Jemma Simmons. I'm a friend of Skye's from college.”

“Jemma Simmons? The author? You're wrong about that clock tower in Romania, you know,” he blurts out. It's a stupid move. He doesn't really have any other kind.

 

Bobbi is a woman on a mission. Several missions in fact. Keep all three of Skye's ex-boyfriends at a healthy distance, make sure that they never so much as spot Lee, and avoid the bartender Hunter. Unfortunately, she's already failing at the third one. He's currently puffing down the beach towards her, drink in one hand. 

“Bob!” he shouts. “Tell me, what's your opinion on tequila?”

“Bob? Really?” She stops, digging her heels into the sand, and fixes him with her best disbelieving stare.

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“That's not...anyway, have you seen three men anywhere? Dragging suitcases and probably looking confused?”

“I might have, if one of them's the bloke with the boat.” Hunter shrugs and grins at her. “But maybe we could get a drink first?”

She turns, exasperated, and stalks off through the sand. There's only one harbor on the island and if they really are on Robbie's boat, it'll be moored somewhere around there. 

“You never told me if you liked tequila!” Hunter shouts after her. 

“Try rum next time.”

 

As it turns out, they are on the boat. With Lee, who appears to be peppering them with questions about Skye's misspent youth and making all three of them distinctly uncomfortable. Bobbi can hear her pleading all the way from the dinghy she conscripted to get out to Robbie's flame-painted boat.

“Come on,” Lee says. “I know you've got some good stories about my mom back when you knew her. Aunt Jemma and Aunt Bobbi never tell me anything and my mom claims that she reformed her wicked ways when she had me.”

Lincoln looks like he's swallowed a live fish, Robbie is grinning and probably about to launch into an incredibly inappropriate story, and Trip...Trip just looks wistful. Bobbi is still a few yards out from the boat but she has the feeling that she has to intervene. Now.

“Jubilee Sofia Johnson!”

Lee whirls to face Bobbi, a guilty look spreading across her face.

“Boat. Now. Unless you want to hear your mother argue with the florist for the next two hours,” Bobbi orders.

“Your middle name's Sofia?” Robbie asks slowly as Lee settles herself in the boat and waves goodbye to them.“I used to have an aunt Sofia.”

Bobbi starts rowing away before Lee can say anything else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am sorry for the incredibly sporadic updates on this one, but real life has been crazy lately and I've also been trying to focus on my original writing. I'm planning to have the next chapter out much more quickly!


End file.
